


The Warden of the East

by SandwichesYumYum



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Complete, F/M, Gen, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-29 20:27:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11448453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandwichesYumYum/pseuds/SandwichesYumYum
Summary: Jaime Lannister and Brienne of Tarth. Canonish future fic of unlikeliness. One shot. Complete.





	The Warden of the East

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize for being unable to post anything for some time, despite never having stopped writing. However, I hope to share more as time moves on now. This is a piece that fell out of my head in a few days, and I suppose represents the happiest situation I can personally imagine our two idiots ending up in. It is all rather unlikely though!
> 
> With my thanks to those who have supported me, particularly Nurdles, who convinced me this fic was worth putting out there in the first place.

Sirros cannot work out quite what to make of the Warden of the West. The Kingslayer had, on the dock, met them with a cool politeness, yet one without flaw. However, just moments after they left the ship, setting foot on dry land with some relief, something caught the attention of Jaime Lannister and his features hardened. Sirros suspects he knows what it was.

If he had thought his father a fool for demanding some of the peasants from their lands be forced to undertake this journey, he'd realized him yet worse for deciding that the unfortunates should remain underfed on the way. In spite of Sirros' fierce arguments to the contrary, Lord Clement Footly was set upon showing no clemency at all, certain that the poor folk must be seen as they were found in order to convince the Warden of the East of their desperate need for aid. Sirros' objections had only bought him a clout from a mailed fist and a reminder that noblemen have no cause to listen to their disappointing sons, heir or no. 

They'd only needed to come to Tarth in the first place because father refused to seek aid when the Wardens were nearer to Tumbleton a while past, on their never-ending progress between East and West, from the home of the one to that of the other. By the time Lord Footly swallowed his pride and admitted that the drought which saw the river run close to dry and the crops wither was beyond his fixing, it was too late. People died, for the want of a lord who did not think it beneath himself to seek help. And one more of the suffering had been lost, on the way.

Sirros did what he could for the smallfolk on the journey, sneaking what little food he could across their camps in the hours of darkness, but one elderly woman nonetheless perished, her belly empty and her bare feet torn to shreds by the endless walking.

He sat with that woman as she drew her last breath, his apologies met with her forgiveness as she faded from life. His father had not attended, nor had he cared, though Sirros' dreams have been haunted by haggard features, suffused with an undeserved kindness, on every night that has passed since.

He would hazard to guess it was the sight of his father ordering this milling, confused group of the starving to follow in an orderly fashion that had set the Kingslayer's teeth on edge. Though he is feared in all the lands of Westeros, this reaction seems to align with the word from their neighbours across the Mander; that although the justice of Lord Jaime Lannister is swift, it is fair, and he will assist those who need it, should it be within his power.

Sirros' father has no such caution of thought on the man. It may be that the shared rule of the Wardens has seen better times for most, the occasional failed harvest aside, but many House elders across the lands of Westeros still refuse to believe any good of him. Lord Clement Footly sees no reason why the Warden of the West should be trusted or respected at all. To the mortification of Sirros, his father, still large of frame, though portly now, and covered with a pride that seems unwarranted on the Eastern Bastion, makes his scorn for the Kingslayer all too clear as they pass from the harbour into the lower town.

Yet every slight seems to wash over Lord Lannister. If anything, he appears to settle into a state of mild amusement, even as Lord Footly hints at the worst about his late sister. Yet the husband of their host gives nothing away, a shuttered smile all to be seen until he leads them to a fork in the ever more steeply ascending streets. Then he raises his golden hand, bringing their walking column to a halt.

"I would ask you to wait for a moment," he says, not lingering for a reply, forcing his way back a few yards through the throng of watching locals, to a soldier of the island who is attempting to corral the poorer of the new arrivals as they straggle behind. 

Sirros listens, though his father does not, so certain is he of the Footly superiority, even in this place. And what Sirros hears surprises him. There is none of the detachment from before when Jaime Lannister speaks to the soldier with some passion, an ornate but battered hand jabbing at the stairs leading up on the right. "I care not if you have to carry each and every one of them on your own backs. Get them all up to Evenfall." 

"My Lord," the soldier nods, moving to obey immediately, taking the rest of the guard with him.

"Arrogant fool. He thinks he is safe with just one man to protect him?" Sirros' father whispers to Garyth, his own, most trusted man-at-arms, though as ever his father's voice fails in subtlety. They both laugh heartily, though the Kingslayer's lone remaining man, who looks more like a sellsword than a lord, simply tilts his head and winks at Sirros. Then he gathers his cloak and lifts it slightly.

Baffled, Sirros does the same as Lord Lannister rejoins them and waves toward the street on the left. "This way is the shorter, my Lord Footly. Shall we proceed?"

It is the stranger's turn to laugh as they begin to wend their way upwards, his grin towards the Warden of the West more of a leer. "Looks like I'll be spending some time with the laundresses, this night!"

Lord Lannister pats his arm and chuckles his reply, "That you will, Bronn."

But a few steps later, it becomes clear to Sirros why there would be lifted hems and talk of laundresses. The stones become sticky and the drain in the middle of the road starts to run red with blood, the noise on the street fast building into a cacophony of panicking and dying animals as they move upwards. 

This path may indeed be the shorter, but they are being shown up to Evenfall Hall by way of the shambles. His father is appalled at the insult, his cheeks darkening with an anger Sirros is used to finding followed with a fist; though the prideful Clement Footly can do nothing with his ire, as the Warden of the West and his man keep the pace just fast enough to see him become out of breath in their wake.

The street, more of a series of elongated steps, is in chaos, with blades flashing into flesh, the smell of blood and shit thick in the air. At one point, they have to squeeze their way past an old, doomed oxen, about to be made ready for the table. Sirros has no idea how the beast had been brought to this place, for the way is difficult, but in watching its final moments he can see why the Kingslayer would feel safe here. Sirros knows nothing of the trade of butchers, but he is learning the blade and it seems to him that these men, who greet Lord Lannister as an old friend when their group passes by, would be more than capable of defending him if the need arose.

Blood spatters over them all, from time to time, though if the man leading them fails to even flinch when hit by an errant spray of it, Sirros finds it curious that his lord father ends up covered in the most, in spite of his position in the middle of the group. There is one incident that Sirros is sure cannot be accidental, a sheep's kidney flying up through the air and landing on the fine buckle of father's boot. Everyone laughs and Lord Clement Footly does too, though it is forced and false. 

They emerge from the shambles very close to the gate of Evenfall Hall to find some of the poor of Tumbleton already there, with more soon to arrive, being run up the main street on the backs of soldiers, just as had been ordered. There is even some jollity, for though they are taking care with their charges, some of the soldiers further down appear to have turned their task into a footrace. It is the first time Sirros can remember some of the children being carried up, their spindly arms laced around strong necks, coming close to happiness.

The Warden of the West turns to Sirros' father. "Mayhaps I was wrong to think that we could be faster than _all_ of them at this time of day. Still, a little blood never hurt anyone, would you not say? The Warden of the East will think no less of you, for the sight of some gore." Lord Clement Footly nods curtly, though his mood brightens when Lannister looks at his man and continues, "And if he isn't too busy, I'm sure Bronn here will be happy to take your clothes to the laundresses. You might like to go along too."

"I hear these island wenches are very generous with themselves," his father grins, all thoughts of insults flying from his head as swiftly as Sirros would expect, given his free use of the servants at home. Nothing can turn his head, or his opinions, faster than the promise of a woman to warm his bed.

"Do you now?" That query is flatly given and Lord Lannister again moves off without an answer, sweeping in through the gate of the castle. They follow him in. The gatehouse opens up into a spacious inner yard, the far end of which is occupied with a number of large men sparring.

Sirros feels his fingers itch, for he has missed his training, though those engaged with blunted weapons here are far above him in skill and are a joy to watch. But when the largest of them all makes a hit, the cry of effort that emerges from the warrior is not that of a man.

 _Could it be?_

Sirros shifts his weight up onto his toes, though there is no-one in front of him and his view is, for once, unobscured. He has heard so many tales of the Lady of Tarth that he hardly knows which ones to believe. She is said, by turns, to be beautiful and ugly, kind and fierce, murderous and just. The woman pauses, her long arms outstretched, as if she notices their arrival, though she is facing the other way. 

Then she turns to them, loosening the belts on her leathers as she slowly walks their way, her face lowered. She lifts them over her head and lets them drop to her right side in the grip of her hand, her feet stopping at the midway point between her efforts and their party. 

She is more ugly than he has ever heard, Sirros thinks as he sees her fully for the first time, the rough scarring on her cheek a remnant of violence long gone, made of the war older folk still talk of too often. However, every movement she makes is measured and her gaze no less so. Even the handing of the battered leathers to a boy is done carefully. Sirros is too young to tell anything about women for sure, but he believes she looks over their party with kindness and her own sort of amusement, though the Warden of the East seems more remote to him than her husband.

For he is certain it _must_ be her. 

Sirros' father has ever disbelieved the tales, whenever he even bothered to listen to them. So he does not take them into account, when Lord Jaime Lannister lifts his golden hand in the direction of the woman and begins, "My Lord Footly -"

"Is _that_ what passes for entertainment, on this island?" Sirros freezes when the question booms out around them, along with everyone else in the yard. Father simply fails to see what he has done, nor does he seem to hear the partial drawing of steel about them.

Lord Jaime Lannister becomes the Kingslayer before Sirros' eyes, though he does not take a single step closer. Sirros would swear he could feel a chill breeze, though there is none to be had here, as the Warden becomes imperious, looking down, somehow, into the eyes of a man whose height matches his own. "Tell me, Lord Footly," he says, too precisely. "Your lands. They are _east_ of the Mander, are they not?"

"That they are. As fine a set of lands as you'll ever see too, excepting this year." Lord Footly leans and looks over Jaime Lannister's shoulder, oblivious to what he is doing when he strokes his beard and says, "Do you you think you could see your way to finding me a cunt that's a little more to my pleasing? I'm sure her holes are wet enough, but I like my whores prettier, yes?"

Jaime Lannister takes one step closer to them then, his face made of stone. If Sirros is not mistaken, he might even drag his feet, so that the movement may be heard by all. "My Lord," he says, offering the title too politely. But what comes after is not so. The Kingslayer can cut deeply, with words alone. "You should learn when to stay your mouth. Or I shall have a very 'pretty' half hour watching you struggle on these very stones, trying to stuff your innards back where they belong."

Yet still his father doesn't see it. Sirros waits in dread, not knowing what to do. He tries to tug on his father's tunic, only to be pushed away angrily, the attention of his sire elsewhere. "After escorting me in such a manner, you dare to speak to me so, Kingslayer?" he shouts out.

The reply is precise, quiet, and seems to hiss through the air like an arrow to its mark. "I dare."

"Then I shall speak to the Lady of Tarth on this matter," Sirros' sire blusters. "The East does not fall under _your_ control. Thank the Gods." For good measure, father spits on the stones of the yard at the Kingslayer's feet. Sirros flinches, for surely he has just sealed his own end. Very possibly, the end of them all.

But Lord Jaime Lannister just spins away, grinning darkly, his blood-spattered cloak flowing behind him as he paces over to the enormous woman in the middle of the yard. "As you will," he says, his voice rising as he turns to stands at her side. "Lord Clement Footly of Tumbleton, as Warden of the West, it is my pleasure to introduce you to the Warden of the East. My wife, the Lady Brienne Lannister of Tarth."

Never has Sirros seen his sire struck dumb, but he is, his mouth flapping open and closed like a freshly landed trout. He doesn't know how long they all stand there in that painful silence, but it feels like forever. "My - My Lady of Tarth," father finally stutters out, his voice strangled, "I had heard tales of your...," his eyes become wild as he struggles to think what to say, "...magnificence, but I -"

The Warden of the East stops Lord Clement Footly's mouth by simply raising her hand, ignoring him as she looks to her husband. "I had thought him to be arriving on the next tide?" She has a beautiful voice, much as Sirros remembers his mother's; low and warm and steady. 

Her calmness is met by the now unchained contempt of the Kingslayer at her side. Sirros does not think he can be blamed for it; father treats his new wife with disdain, but would beat any man bloody if they spoke of her so. "How fortunate we all are," the Warden of the West says, as if already wholly bored by their audience, "that his Lordship set sail earlier."

"Indeed," she says softly, staring at the blood on his cheek.

Lord Clement Footly suddenly bursts into speech. "My Lady! I meant no -"

Again, the Lady of Tarth raises her hand and father falls silent. "You have come to _me_ for aid, my Lord," she says. She does not even look at him, smiling down at the man at her side. "Husband, were we in the West, what would you be minded to do?"

"I would cut out his tongue," the Kingslayer says, so deliberately that Sirros thinks he means it, though he too is smiling. His golden hand shifts, waving at the cobbled ground. "Then I'd have him scrabble about for his innards for a spell, just as I said. What?" he asks, when his wife sighs softly. He does not appear sorry for his suggestion; if anything, it is the opposite when he squares up to her, though she is the larger. "The thought amuses," he adds, unashamed.

"Then Lord Clement is fortunate we are in the East," the Lady of Tarth says, with the utmost solemnity, though she is looking upon her husband with an unusual fondness. Then she walks forward, slowly, staring at father as if examining his worth. Even Sirros finds it unnerving. "I think, mayhaps, I will not go so far," she says, coming to a halt a few feet off, "this time. I would not have his people suffer for his failings and at the least, he cannot be blamed for the blighting of his crops." 

Yet then she looks past them and her face becomes bleak. Sirros hears shuffling but has to crouch to see, through a forest of legs, the smallfolk making their way into Evenfall Hall. They do not look well. Gripped by panic, Sirros looks back to their host, who is now glaring at father in sheer disgust. If Lord Clement Footly had been careless with his mouth, this is the moment that Sirros knows there is true peril here.

Deathly silence falls over them all, a stifling blanket that makes Sirros' chest tighten with worry. He holds no love for his father, but he was brought up loyal and does not wish him dead. 'It is too soon for me to be a lord,' Sirros thinks to himself and worries that he has said it out loud, though the Warden of the East at least shows no signs of having heard him, her nostrils flaring as she breathes fast in her anger.

It takes her some time to speak and, when she does, much of the warmth in her voice is gone. "First, we shall see to those you have brought to bear witness. Steward!" she calls, and a wiry man scuttles over. "Wash them, clothe them and see to it they are well fed and rested." 

She watches the sorry group pass by, waved on and directed to a door by one of the soldiers who had borne them up to this high fortress. She does not miss the bloodied footprints left behind, her thick lips pressing into a thin line as she glances down, seeing a mark left by a small child. "Make sure their wounds are tended to." 

"The Maester has already been sent for." The steward's voice grows far quieter, and Sirros is thankful for his sharp ears. "Should I watch for those who have been paid?" 

The Lady of Tarth's gaze seems to wonder aimlessly over the gathered nobles of Tumbleton and, though it is a risk, Sirros shakes his head in as small a way as he can when it rests on him. His father would endanger the lives of the poor, but would think such a ruse beneath his noble dignity. "Yes, though I do not think you will find any," she whispers, turning to face the sharp-eyed steward, who has noticed Sirros' gesture too. "Use no force," the lady adds, and the steward departs, following the last of the smallfolk.

When the oaken door thuds shut behind him, her attention swings elsewhere. "My Lord Warden?"

"Yes, my Lady Warden?" If the wife is being very serious, the husband is not, stepping to her side again with a swagger that belies the compliance of his words, though the sense of her authority is undiminished by it. There is not a soul here who isn't hanging onto her every word.

"You will accompany me in these talks," she says. "Lord Footly's lands may lie in the East, but they border on the Mander. Together, we can ascertain the suitability of their current caretaker."

That last statement stirs Sirros' father back into speech, stung by the thought of his lordship being placed under question. "But my - My Lady, I have brought you gifts!" he bellows out, waving his arm out in the direction of one of his cousins, who is carrying a slender case, sheathed in velvet. 

The Lady Brienne's gaze is unwavering, pinned to the face of Lord Clement Footly. She moves yet nearer, until she is staring down into father's eyes. He does not like it, that much is plain to see, though if he finds being looked down upon by such a woman frightening or a base insult, Sirros cannot tell. 

"I care nothing for your gifts, my Lord," she says, without aggression but with firmness. "You will follow me. As will your son," she continues, her head tilting. All that Sirros can think, when he is brought into her view, this close, is that her eyes are the most blue he's ever seen. There is a moment when he thinks he sees a few gaps where teeth should be too, almost as though she is smiling. "We will discuss the needs of your people, to see how they will be met," the Lady says, though Sirros is confused that she seems to be saying it to him, before she addresses father once more. "And then you will leave, my Lord. On the next outgoing tide."

There is an unspoken tremor of shock all around as the guest right is revoked, though one man takes it in good humour, walking over to retrieve his wife's cloak from its place, draped over a barrel in the corner. He laughs when he walks back over to her, the cloak dangling over his golden hand. "Need Lord Clement leave this fair isle _on_ a boat, my love?"

"A _ship_ , husband," is the reply, and it feels like an old argument, much like one the cook and her husband might have at home, though they always seem happy enough, as a rule. Neatly, the Lady takes her cloak and settles it about her shoulders, tying it. "Let us all hope so." Satisfied her cloak is secured, she points at father and at Sirros. "With me, if you will."

She turns and strides away from them, much as her husband had earlier and father, obviously growing tired of the lack of manners he has found on this far-flung island, huffs next to Sirros. But the Kingslayer will not let his wife's order lie. "Come now, Lord Footly. It's best you follow the Lady. She is better disposed towards you than I am. Think of your tongue, why don't you? You seem fond of it."

The thinly veiled threat jars father into movement, his legs swallowing up the distance between himself and the Warden of the East. Sirros can barely keep up without running, and finds himself quickly going into a corridor, the Warden of the East in front of him, whilst the Warden of the West takes position at his side, behind father. 

It is much darker inside Evenfall Hall, with this part of the keep bare of limewash and lit merely by the occasional torch. The way is narrow and they are moving with some speed. Sirros thinks he might see the Wardens exchange glances, as if speaking without doing so, but he cannot look up without being too overcome by his own lack of height. He finds himself hoping that he is not yet full-grown, once more. 

At the end of the corridor they turn into another, shorter but even darker. Sirros feels crowded and overwhelmed, so he truly jumps when a hand reaches out in front of him, barely touching his stomach, but its appearance there enough to jolt him to a halt. The door of the room ahead opens and closes, his father and the Lady of Tarth gone, and he tries not to shake as he looks up into the impassive face of the Kingslayer.

"How many died?" the older man asks after a while spent merely looking at him, now serious. Now quiet. "On the journey?"

"One," Sirros says, though his mouth is suddenly dry. "An elder. Please do not tell father," he whispers, urgently, "but I took them food at night." He shakes his head as the dying woman's face seems to loom large in front of him in this dark place, to make it go away. "I did not know she had been giving her share to her daughter. The one heavy with child."

The Warden nods slowly, as if in understanding. "How old are you?"

"Five and ten, my Lord." He glances at the door, unnerved by the silence behind it. He would expect to hear his father shouting by now, especially if being brought to heel like a cur by an ugly woman. Sirros cannot think of anything Lord Clement Footly could bear less than that. "Are we to die here?" He hates the smallness and cowardice in his voice, though it is met only by a smile that, in anyone other than this Lord, might easily be called kind.

"Fear not, lad. I won't even be depriving him of his tongue. It's messy enough work when you have both hands. Impossible with one." Sirros does not feel any safer and is too afraid to ask if what he has heard is true. His father had been disgusted when told that the Kingslayer had taken to carrying out his justice himself, whenever he could, and cursed him for slaking his bloodlust even as he mocked him, for taking on the uncivilised ways of the Warden of the North.

It is possible that the Lord Lannister can see fear easily, just as some say, or even smell it, though he does nothing more dangerous than raising his forged hand to rest it on Sirros' shoulder. It is heavy. The infamous man leans down, nearly to his height. "Your father is thoughtless, I think, and cruel, but no crueler than many lords, more's the pity. If we killed all the lords with a streak of darkness, there'd be none left. And if I'd find cutting out a tongue a trial, can you imagine me trying to take off my own head?" 

Sirros sucks in a great breath of relief, for now he believes they are all safe from harm, and the Kingslayer smiles again. "My good lady wife will talk some right into him," he goes on, with a look to the door. "She has that gift about her. He will heed her words, if he has any sense of his position. 'Tis not your time for lording, just yet, I think." At that, the Warden of the West lightly pats Sirros' left shoulder, though the weight of the legendary hand only makes him feel the insult that is the only tunic father would give him; padded, as if for a small child or a green squire, not his heir. 

"My father says I will never be ready!" Sirros hisses out, without thought, though then he stifles his mouth for a moment with his fingers, fearing he may seem disloyal to his sire. That is the worst thing you can be, as he as always been taught it. Lord Jaime Lannister doesn't appear to think so, simply waiting for him to go on. Sirros speaks reluctantly and with care. "He...He says the Gods have cursed him with a runt for his only son."

This just draws a deep rumble of laughter from the Kingslayer's chest. "Looking fine with a sword in hand does not a good lord make. And you will be surprised what runts can do," he says, letting his golden hand drop away, his smile growing ever wider. "They can change the _world."_

Sirros is too timid yet to ask if he is speaking of his dwarf brother, who disappeared with the last dragons years past, but there is one other matter he thinks he may venture without danger. 

"My Lord Warden?"

"Yes?"

"I - If our lands were west of the Mander and we went to Casterly Rock, would the Lady of Tarth be speaking to me instead?"

There is more laughter now, and Sirros wonders at the Kingslayer himself, looking down at him with a measure of pride. It seems beyond reason, and it is possible that the torchlight has fooled Sirros into seeing what is not there, but he thinks it true. "You have far more thought in your head than your sire, I think, but the Warden of the East has already ruled that he will be leaving on the next tide. It's likely you shall leave with him." The amusement in Lord Jaime Lannister ebbs and for a moment, he stares down at Sirros, before quietly telling him what is to happen. "We will go in now. Sit, watch and listen. I do not doubt that you will learn more this day about ruling than you ever could from your father."

Sirros is not affronted by that, as today has not been his lord father's finest showing, even by his standards. He wants to ask who he should be learning from, the husband or the wife, but the Warden of the West is already opening the door to bring him in. He notices the Kingslayer raise a single finger as he passes him, and his lady wife, at the far end of the room, sees it, though there is barely a flicker of muscle in her jaw to meet what must be the knowledge of the elder woman's death. 

Sirros hurries to sit on the chair which is next to his father, but instead finds himself dragged to a stool at the side of the room. The pats on his shoulder are less gentle this time and Sirros drops clumsily onto the seat, feeling even smaller as the Lord Lannister leans against the wall next to him. 

When he rights himself, Sirros looks around. The chamber is well lit, though only from a very tall, thin window at the Lady of Tarth's side. She is sitting, still as an effigy in the sunlight, her fingers steepled, simply staring at the man in front of her. If Sirros had to guess, he would say this is all that has come to pass since he was closed out of the chamber.

Only then does Sirros see his father, and the sight shocks him. He has never, in his whole life, seen Lord Clement Footly look truly afraid. Cruel, sometimes. Foolish, often. Loud, always. But never, _ever_ afraid. 

Yet there he sits, his ruddy skin grown pale and sweat beading upon his brow. It would seem that Sirros will be learning from both the husband and the wife, for he could never have believed that his father could be cowed by silence. But so it is.

He does not know why the Warden of the East chooses to end it. He does not think he ever will. There is no signal, no change Sirros can see. However in the end, the Lady of Tarth speaks, her words measured. "You are not the first Lord from your region to seek help with your grain stores. It was wise of you come, with your people in such need," she tells father. But any relief in this praise is short-lived. She lets her hands fall to the arms of her chair and if it happens softly, she seems to straighten her back, somehow dominating the room, whilst simply in her seat. "However, you are the first to force the suffering to come with you, without tending to their needs." Her eyes turn harder. "That was _not_ wise."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you kindly for reading. :)


End file.
